


do me wrong

by fleetingblossom



Category: Diabolik Lovers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:43:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2539856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleetingblossom/pseuds/fleetingblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You were never really a good mother. A study on Cordelia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	do me wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers.  
> Finished 10/30/2014.

“Perhaps it takes courage to raise children.”  
― John Steinbeck, East of Eden 

You were never really a good mother.

Couldn’t be, but you don’t blame yourself too much.

Maybe you didn’t hold them enough when they were born, but after three days of lying with your legs in the air, nine months of your stomach stretched out taut, far too large, and all there is left to show of all you went through are three pathetic little things with misshapen heads and bug eyes, you can’t blame yourself too much for not wanting to hold them.

They cry, little lungs gasping for air, and you press the back of your hand to your forehead, wondering what to do with three useless little things wriggling in swaddling cloth, smelling of blood and dying. He is not here and it doesn’t matter anymore--you can’t blame yourself for not caring, not too much.

You can’t blame yourself too much when your first son has his nose and his eyes and the curve of his jaw, sharp and sloping and beautiful. Too much, you seethe when he grows, slender neck and tapered fingers, your mind reeling from wondering how much this one would love you.

If he would love you enough for two people, you wonder, fingernails tracing skin too pliant. He would. He had to. You have no use for sons who didn’t listen, after all. No use for sons with their tongues cut like sparrows, more mouths to feed than you had the patience.

No use for sons who couldn’t last a minute with water rushing to their lungs without crying, red hair too dark to be his and eyes too defiant to be yours. You dig your fingers into his jaw and the water is cold, splashing against the front of your dress.

Silk. It’s a shame, but he knows the consequences, and when you yank his head up, red hair gripped between the crevices of your fingers, he is a fish drowning in all his promises, his tongue between his teeth.

Tears drip into bath water and you have no need for leftover sons, especially ones who look less like him and more like you. He watches with glassy eyes, raggedy doll in tow, desperate to be loved but you have no use for canaries.

Fitting, then, when he is the son who loves you the most, enough for two people, more than two people. His hands ghost your skin as the fire flickers, a smile pulling his lips and the doll’s eyes gleaming. Your little canary sings and sings and keeps you warm through the night.

You were never really a good mother. Could never have been, but you don’t blame yourself. They will never forget you, at most, not like the way he had.  


End file.
